


Through Written Communication

by Murderandtea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Highschool AU, Idiots in Love, M/M, Teenlock, just boys being silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murderandtea/pseuds/Murderandtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John first stumbles on one of Sherlock's deductions in a toilet cubicle. Amazed at what he reads, he writes a comment underneath, and signs it with a JW. Soon, the boys spiral into a strange sort of friendship. They converse only through little scrawls on bathroom walls, until one day John decides to do a little detective work of his own. His target? The enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caramel Frappes and Observing Freaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Though your term is obviously meant to be endearing, Anderson, I'm sure you could come up with something much more original if you really tried. However, your need to put labels on people intrigues me. Does using such names boost your self esteem? Maybe it’s because your drunken father abuses you at home. In general, most people don't like to be told that they’re stupid every day, even when it's true. Also, send my compliments to your mother. Most people can’t hold more than three affairs at once, yet she does it effortlessly. Such a pity that you didn't inherit her intelligence...   
> -SH’

‘Sherlock Holmes is a freak.’

 

The rough, rushed writing stood out boldly against all the other drabbles on the bathroom stall. Repressed anger, judging by the thickness of the line, as whoever wrote this was clearly pressing very hard. Sherlock leaned in closer and sniffed. The strong smell of permanent marker filled his nose, so the ink was still very fresh; someone had just written it earlier that day. In his mind palace, Sherlock flipped through all the people he had deduced that morning like a phone book. He stopped on Anderson.

 

Phillip Anderson… Sherlock smirked. How predictable of him. Small and wiry in build, he relied on his harsh tongue more than his small brain. Unable to resist the urge, Sherlock pulled a pen out of his bag with a flourish.

 

* * *

 

John Watson half-ran down the halls, the door to the gents getting closer and closer. Time seemed to slow as he pushed passed someone in the doorway in his scramble to get to a cubicle. Just in time, he managed to pull down his slacks and seat himself upon the bowl.

 

This was the definitely last time he was going to drink an extra-large caramel frappé before school. Once the urgency of the moment was over, John took his time in looking around the stall as he caught his breath. School cubicles, as a rule, always had writing on them. John figured it had something to do with anonymously letting out your "creative side". Whatever the reason, reading the various things people had written never failed to provide entertainment for those who came after them.

 

Once he had finished up, John stood to flush, when something caught his eye. Unlike the usual messy scrawl, someone had written a reply to an insult in elegant, loopy cursive and bright blue ink.

 

‘Though your term is obviously meant to be endearing, Anderson, I'm sure you could come up with something much more original if you really tried. However, your need to put labels on people intrigues me. Does using such names boost your self esteem? Maybe it’s because your drunken father abuses you at home. In general, most people don't like to be told that they’re stupid every day, even when it's true. Also, send my compliments to your mother. Most people can’t hold more than three affairs at once, yet she does it effortlessly. Such a pity that you didn't inherit her intelligence... -SH’

 

John grinned to himself. This Sherlock bloke sure knew his stuff. He had no idea how "Sherlock" could've possibly figured all of that out, but it was pretty amazing. Fumbling in his pocket, John pulled out a pen and scrawled 'This is fantastic! -JW' underneath Sherlock's comment before quickly leaving the bathroom. 

 

* * *

 

“OI, HOLMES! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING?!?” Anderson’s nasal voice called after Sherlock as he walked past the school gate. Hearing his name, Sherlock turned around just in time to see Anderson and his mates starting to crowd around him.

 

“Careful, gents, people might think we’re going to have a great big homosexual orgy.”

 

Sherlock noticed at least two faces flush at his remark, and he mentally noted them as having homosexual tendencies.

 

“Shut up, Holmes,” Anderson said as he stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. “We’d like to have a chat with you.”

 

Sherlock's face showed only boredom as he responded. He had much better things to do at home, plus he knew it would infuriate Anderson more. “Regarding my statement in the bathroom, I suppose."

 

“Who the fuck told you about my mum and dad?”

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

“You did.”

 

Confusion flashed across Anderson’s face, then anger. “You fucking liar. Why in the world would I tell a freak like you?”

 

“Sure you did. You’re screaming it out to anyone who pays attention. Every day, you rush to get to school, but drag your feet afterwards. That means you want to be at school, but you don’t pay attention in any of your classes, so it can't be for educational reasons. You just don’t want to be at home. You visibly flinch when someone accidentally drops a book, and your first instinct is too attack with words. Can’t be your mother, she’s never at home. Probably off with her lovers, in fact. That just leaves your dad as the person you've picked your habits up from.

 

"Your dad can’t really raise you, he’s far too drunk all the time. It's easy to see where he’s stumbled and grabbed on to you for support from the bruises on your neck and shoulder. Your shirt hasn't been ironed in…. I’d say at least a few months, and you've needed new shoes for even longer. So both neglected and poor.

 

"As for your mother, on the rare days when she’s dropped you off, she’s not wearing a wedding ring. She is, however, wearing expensive perfume and lipstick. Can't be from your lowlife father, can’t be from her minimum-wage job. Rich lovers, then. And how do I know it’s more than one?.... Just call it a gut instinct.”

 

Anderson’s face had been reddening throughout Sherlock's whole deduction. Sherlock had also noticed his fist clenching, but ignored it, rattling on as usual. But it was that last comment that earned him a great big hook to the face.

 

The two boys threw clumsy punches at each other, occasionally getting a cheek or a stomach, until they were roughly pulled apart by a few seniors. Sherlock felt a drop of blood fall from his lips. He defiantly wiped it off with the back of his hand and glared at Anderson, then those who had intervened. His heart sank when he recognised the expensive shoes and stern face of his brother.


	2. Acetone and Aurora Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writing was squished together and mostly connected, almost like the writer didn't take his pen off the wall. Probably in a rush, then, or nervous about writing on school property. The words slanted down slightly on the right, at about the height of Sherlock’s chest. From that he was able to deduce that the writer was short, the pen held somewhere around his lower face. Pressing his finger to the ink, Sherlock smudged a bit off and inspected the colour. He guessed Aurora Black, the standard in ball point pens.
> 
> Disappointed that he couldn't deduce anything of worth about the writer, much less his identity, Sherlock wiped away the kindest thing someone had said to him in years.

The next day, the two boys found themselves punished with the task of scrubbing the cubicle walls. Sherlock wasn’t surprised that Mycroft had snitched on them; he took his role as prefect much too seriously. The way his brother sucked up to their Headmaster made Sherlock roll his eyes, huff in annoyance, and imagine every conceivable way of removing Mycroft's tongue.

 

Picking up his bucket and scrub brush, Anderson roughly shoved Sherlock out of the way in order to claim the stall with the least graffiti before the "freak" could. Not that this meant he'd do a better job. Sherlock sighed to himself, and picked up his own bucket before entering the same stall that he had written on himself. Brush in hand, he was about to start scrubbing off his own writing, when he realised that someone else had written a comment beneath his.

 

'This is fantastic! -JW'

 

The words swam in front of him, and Sherlock blinked a couple of times in confusion. He didn’t know anyone by the initials of JW, and he certainly didn’t know anyone who complimented him. Feeling slightly more cheerful about his chore, Sherlock quickly erased most of the markings on the wall. Knowing his brother, he had packed acetone the previous night, and soon all that was left was the enigmatic comment from JW.

 

Peering closer, Sherlock tried to deduce something about the writer.

 

The writing was squished together and mostly connected, almost like the writer didn't take his pen off the wall. Probably in a rush, then, or nervous about writing on school property. The words slanted down slightly on the right, at about the height of Sherlock’s chest. From that he was able to deduce that the writer was short, the pen held somewhere around his lower face. Pressing his finger to the ink, Sherlock smudged a bit off and inspected the colour. He guessed Aurora Black, the standard in ball point pens.

 

Disappointed that he couldn't deduce anything of worth about the writer, much less his identity, Sherlock wiped away the kindest thing someone had said to him in years.

 

Anderson was still scrubbing the first stall when Sherlock had finished with the last. The only of them smart enough to do his job right put his bucket and brush in the store cupboard where he'd found them, ignoring the glare Anderson shot at his retreating back.

 

He was about to exit the loos when an idea struck him, and he paused. Turning around and entering the first cubicle again, Sherlock pulled out his pen and wrote 'Thank you', in a small but noticeable print near the far top corner by the door.

 

With a last smirk in Anderson’s direction, Sherlock pushed open the door and swept out with a sarcastic call of “Laters!”

 

The slam of the door cut off Anderson’s very original reply, “Freak!”

 

* * *

 

Hold up guys, I just need to go to the loo really quick," John Watson called as he and his large group of friends went past the toilets en route to lunch.

 

“Nah, we’ll meet you out on the rugby field, mate. Not much use hanging round here whilst you go number one.”

 

With a small shrug, John broke off from the rest of them and entered the toilets. Good thing, too, as he secretly wanted to check if this Sherlock fella had written any more. Much to his surprise, however, John found the walls of the cubicles scrubbed spotless and smelling a bit like his sister’s nail polish. Eyebrows furrowed, John looked all around the stall in confusion, before finally spotting a small blue message by the door.

 

It simply stated 'Thank you', but John instantly recognised the colour. It was Sherlock! He grinned and pulled out his own pen, scribbling a quick reply underneath, before hurrying back out to join his friends. He was too busy to really think about Sherlock for the rest of the day, but his new bathroom pen-pal was always silently lurking in the back of John's mind.


	3. Spies and Secret Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rush of happiness unlike anything he'd ever felt before bubbled up in Sherlock's chest. He smiled at the words JW left, running a finger over them. Twice he had been complimented now, and this person wanted to continue their conversation. Part of him worried that it was an elaborate prank, but he knew that Anderson would never be able to dream something like this up. Of course, thoughts of Anderson reminded Sherlock that other students would be able to read what they wrote, and potentially use it against him.

Sherlock Holmes, universally hated by his peers as he was, found himself in another fight by lunch. Two boys had snuck out of class to go to have a cigarette, and Sherlock didn’t even need to make a particularly clever deduction for them to decided that he needed to be pushed around. It really was obvious; they smelled strongly of smoke, and there were bits of ash stuck to the insides of their collars. In the end, though, their tiny minds got bored with only giving Sherlock small shoves. After much laborious thought, they pushed him to the ground, laughing nasally as they walked away.

 

Sherlock glared at their retreating backs as he pulled himself up, slowly making his way to the bathroom. In the mirror, he saw that his usually crisp shirt was wrinkled and dirty, and his dark hair was all mussed up. Behind him, the toilet stall beckoned Sherlock with a promise to cheer him up as he remembered his message to JW yesterday.

 

Sherlock closed the door behind him, as if he were really going to use the loo, and looked up at the corner where he'd written.

 

'You’re welcome :) It was pretty amazing. How did you do it?'

 

A rush of happiness unlike anything he'd ever felt before bubbled up in Sherlock's chest. He smiled at the words JW left, running a finger over them. Twice he had been complimented now, and this person wanted to continue their conversation. Part of him worried that it was an elaborate prank, but he knew that Anderson would never be able to dream something like this up. Of course, thoughts of Anderson reminded Sherlock that other students would be able to read what they wrote, and potentially use it against him.

 

Most people were stupid, and wouldn't pay attention to their surroundings, but Sherlock supposed that the words might be getting a bit eye catching. Since he knew that JW had already been able to find his messages, Sherlock took out the acetone from yesterday and wiped off both messages, waiting impatiently for the chemical to dry. Now in the habit of carrying around the same pen with its pretty blue ink, Sherlock wrote JW another message right in the same spot where he had put the last one before. After straightening himself out, Sherlock's confidence began to return, and he exited the bathroom.

 

* * *

John wasn't fully aware of what he was doing until he found himself back in the gent’s for the second time in one day. There was something incredibly exciting about his communications with a complete stranger, especially since it was Sherlock. And although he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, John also kind of felt like a spy. With a grin to himself, he stepped into the cubicle, only to find that their conversation had been wiped clean and replaced.

 

‘I simply observed. Most people don’t realise just how much about themselves they are telling others without even saying a word. I notice the details that no one else does, and they get angry when I deduce their whole lives from it.’

 

The answer intrigued John. Details? Perhaps he meant body language. John had read in class once about things that people do when they’re nervous, "tells". He looked down at himself, wondering what Sherlock could figure out about him.

 

From the corner of his eye, John saw a small but noticeably blue arrow point behind the seat. Cocking his head to the side in confusion, he wondered what Sherlock was showing him. John placed his hand gingerly on the wall as he crouched down and fumbled around on the ground. His fingers finally hit a small, hard bottle. Pulling it out, John saw that it was nail polish remover. Well, that explained the smell, but it took a few seconds before realisation flooded in and he understood Sherlock’s message.

 

John pulled off a sheet of toilet paper, carefully wiped away Sherlock’s message, and dabbed the spot dry.

 

‘What can you deduce about me, then?’


	4. Lost Boys and Angry Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a churning sensation in his stomach, and Sherlock felt like screaming. Why did he want to impress this stranger so much? He had no incentive to deduce JW, yet Sherlock felt compelled to tell the boy anything and everything he could find out. JW thought he was special, and Sherlock realised that he didn’t want this particular boy to think otherwise.

Sherlock stared at the words in dismay.

‘ _What can you deduce about me then?’_  

Nothing. He thought angrily. Sherlock stared at the wall and he could swear he could see the question marks float off. JW was short; right handed; he wrote fast, pen barely lifting off, much like a doctor’s scrawl. But that was all. Hardly a worthy deduction.

Now in a bad mood, Sherlock stalked out of the bathroom, glaring at anyone who dared to look his way.

 

There was a churning sensation in his stomach, and Sherlock felt like screaming. Why did he want to impress this stranger so much? He had no incentive to deduce JW, yet Sherlock felt compelled to tell the boy anything and everything he could find out. JW thought he was special, and Sherlock realised that he didn’t want this particular boy to think otherwise.

Sherlock found himself outside and with a huff he sat under a large tree with only his thoughts for company. Except that he didn’t want that anymore. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have friends. He knew that, they knew that. Yet now he was craving the companionship of someone he’s never even met.

No. He mentally slapped himself. Sentiment is a chemical defect. Mycroft loomed above him and Sherlock felt himself shrink under the gaze.

‘Caring is not an advantage Sherlock’

Suddenly, Sherlock was hit in the face by a football, and he snapped back in to reality. He hadn’t even realised that he’d been day dreaming. The heavy threat of his brother vanished as a boy from the same year as Sherlock ran over, his sandy hair ruffling in the wind.

“Sorry, mate! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to kick it that far, I swear.”

 

Sherlock stiffened, and handed him the ball. “I’m fine, thank you.”

 

The boy nodded.

 

“Well, good. Sorry ‘bout that.” He ran to go join his friends again.

 

As soon as he walked away Sherlock’s mind reeled.

As soon as he walked away, Sherlock’s mind reeled with deductions. "Long term rugby player; arm broken three times, twice from sports and once from falling off of his bike. Constantly worries about his older sibling, so much that he hardly gets any sleep. Skin tone indicates that he spends a lot of outside, but not so much so that it eliminates studying. Middle class, from the shirt that’s slightly too small."

Three and a half seconds. Not bad. Sherlock smiled to himself, knowing that, at least, it wasn’t his observation skills that prevented him from deducing JW. Sherlock put it down to lack of data and stood up happily, the want of companionship lost and submerged in his moment of glory.

 

* * *

 

John Watson frowned, tilting his head to the side in confusion. Words stared back at him, but they were not a reply from Sherlock, just his own words. John felt his stomach drop when he saw that Sherlock hadn’t answered his question. So far, they had been able able to communicate every day, and John couldn’t stop the feeling of bitter disappointment that it hadn't continued. Maybe he went too far. He shouldn’t have treated Sherlock like a performing monkey, and Sherlock was probably cross at him for it.

 

The whole way home John kicked the same pebble over and over, getting angrier and angrier with himself. Why was he so stupid? No wonder his grades were slipping no matter what he did or how hard he studied. As he neared his house, John was able to hear his sister yelling far before he should have. Wearily, he opened the door and walked down the hall to the kitchen, where he knew Harry would be.

s usual, she was standing by the bench, a bottle in hand, and her face was red both from the alcohol and from screaming. Her boyfriend, Greg, was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands gripping the wood so tightly that his knuckles were white. Greg Lestrade was a nice man, but Harry really knew how to push people's buttons. John was sure that, like all of her previous relationships, this one would soon end.

“WELL, YOU AND MYCROFT HOLMES CAN JUST GO FUCK YOURSELVES. OR EACH OTHER. I DON’T GIVE A SHIT ANYMORE.”

 

John’s heart skipped a beat. Holmes? Greg knew Sherlock’s brother?

 

He quickly hid around the corner as Greg stormed out of the house. From her window, Harry clumsily threw a bottle at Greg’s retreating back before sobbing loudly. John shook his head. He would never understand girls in general, let alone his sister.


	5. Poems and Hypocritical Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brother? Yeah, he's got one... Sherlock, or something. Both of them are a bit socially awkward. Their parents are always working, so the boys had to look after themselves a lot when they were little. Mycroft said that something happened to Sherlock one day, and he built up walls around himself. I guess the poor bloke never really had any friends...”

Much to Sherlock’s disappointment, the feeling of companionship returned, and he found himself back in the toilets.

 

‘What can you deduce about me, then?’

 

The words seemed to taunt him. No one had ever asked him to do that before, and ordinarily he would’ve been ecstatic too, except... He couldn’t. Childish frustration filled Sherlock, and he only barely resisted the urge to sulk. Grabbing the acetone, he haphazardly wiped off JW’s comment, leaving a smudge of black ink. By now, the toilet wall was filled with other scribblings again, and Sherlock decided to pick another spot to write in. He was curious to see if JW could find it.

 

When he exited the toilet, Sherlock happened to see his brother turning the corner. His eyes widened in surprise when he realised that Mycroft was talking to someone.

 

What happened to "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock"?

 

He scoffed to himself and silently followed the two seniors.

 

"... So then she kicked me out, and I guess we’re not together anymore."

 

Mycroft nodded. His hands moved, as if to comfort the boy, but then he lowered them awkwardly.

 

"It’ll be alright, Gregory. You don’t need a drunken mad woman."

 

Confusion flooded Sherlock. Mycroft was being _friendly_. He hid behind a wall as they walked down another long corridor, so that he could listen without being observed. As his thoughts reeled, Sherlock just happened to look up at one of the walls where a teacher had pinned up some students' work. Usually, he ignored them, but Sherlock recognised a certain hand writing and he slowly turned his head to read the words.

 

 

"The Problem with Having Dreams

 

Sometimes, I wish I could be a Doctor.

Save lives and not worry about money.

 

Sometimes, I wish I could be a Spy.

Save the world and not worry about living.

 

Sometimes, I wish I could be a footballer.

Save goals and not worry about working.

 

Sometimes, I wish I could be a CEO.

Save the company and not worry about friends.

 

Sometimes, I wish I had a proper family.

Save my feelings and not worry about heartache.

 

Sometimes, I wish I could have all these things.

Save my dreams and not worry.

 

-John Watson"

 

 

Sherlock stared at the piece. A million thoughts ran through his mind at the same time. John Watson was a poet. John Watson was JW. John Watson wasn’t boring like other people. John Watson made Sherlock want to talk to him. John Watson. John Watson. John Watson. Just knowing his name made Sherlock shiver with excitement. Excitement for what, though, he did not know.

 

* * *

 

John was impatient all through class, his left leg twitching in anticipation. After Greg left his house the day before, John had chased after him, demanding to know if Mycroft Holmes had a younger brother. What he learned broke his heart, and he was determined to befriend Sherlock Holmes.

 

As soon as the bell rang, John raced ahead of his friends, despite their calls. He crept into the toilets and pulled out his pen, ready to apologise. He faltered, however, when he saw that in their usual spot, there was only a smeared cloud of black.

 

John’s eyes scanned the wall, going right over all of the 'Person <3s dick's and ‘Emma Watson is my life’s until he found, hidden between two confessions of love, Sherlock’s hand writing.

 

‘Nothing, sorry; not enough data. I need clay to make bricks.’

 

John sighed inwardly. Of course it was too much to ask, it was a nearly impossible task, even for someone like Sherlock. They had, after all, never met.

 

Picking another part of the wall, John tried to make his reply in to a joke.

 

'Not such a super-sleuth then, huh? ;)'

 

Was that too harsh? His mind went back to the conversation with Greg yesterday.

 

  
_“Brother? Yeah, he's got one... Sherlock, or something. Both of them are a bit socially awkward. Their parents are always working, so the boys had to look after themselves a lot when they were little. Mycroft said that something happened to Sherlock one day, and he built up walls around himself.  I guess the poor bloke never really had any friends..._ ”

 

Sherlock would probably take offense at that, given his history. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. Deciding to make it easier for him, John put a little arrow underneath with a tiny bracketed 'joke', hoping Sherlock would get the message.

 

* * *

 

‘Not such a super-sleuth then, huh? ;)’

 

Sherlock felt his mouth twitch up.  He’d never considered himself to be a sleuth, although that might be an interesting career path… He had easily found John’s hand writing on the other side of the wall, and was amused by the small indication of a joke beneath.

 

‘And you’re not such a great poet. -> (Joke)'

 

Pretty soon, the boys fell into an easy rhythm. Sherlock would write in the morning, John at lunch, and then Sherlock again the next day. Both of their handwritings were easy to spot; but only to each other, not to anyone who might curiously be reading the wall whilst in the loo.

 

* * *

 

‘Oh no. You didn’t see the…’

 

 

 

_‘I did.’_

 

 

 

‘I’m sorry you had to see it.’

 

 

 

_‘It was good.’_

 

 

 

‘You really think so?’

 

 

 

_‘Of course.’_

 

 

 

‘Thank you.’

 

 

 

_‘You’re very welcome.’_


	6. Curious Boys that are Not Jealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In fact, it was even worse when ‘Gregory’ would be staying over. Sherlock wouldn’t say he was jealous but he wouldn’t mind if John came to stay too. In his bed, Sherlock’s heart battled his head. Push down those feelings it said. John won’t like you. No one does. Not even your parents who would rather work for weeks at a time than see your face.
> 
> John likes me.
> 
> That’s because he doesn’t know you.

Chapter 6: Curious boys that are not jealous

Much to Sherlock’s displeasure, he found himself wanting more and more to be friends with John Watson. It was annoying but inevitable, much like how Mycroft kept bringing a certain friend home, and the house filled with their laughter.

 

In fact, it was even worse when " _Gregory_ " was staying over. Sherlock wouldn’t call himself jealous, per say, but he wouldn’t have minded if John came to stay, too. Late at night, Sherlock’s heart battled with his head. "Push down those feelings," logic told him. "John won’t like you. No one does. And caring is not an advantage, anyway."

 

 

John likes me.

 

 

"That’s only because he doesn’t know you."

 

* * *

 

 

John was disappointed that their conversation had briefly died down. Though they hadn't really said much at all, John could tell that Sherlock was pretty interesting, and he wanted to talk more. John was also curious to see what Sherlock looked like, so John made the decision to go and find out for himself.

 

From what he could hear of Harry's phone rants, John knew that Greg was visiting the Holmes' house an awful lot. He would even get inside their car after school sometimes (which was unbelievable, according to Harry).

 

So, the next day after school, John made a beeline for Greg’s classroom. He watched his sister's ex and Mycroft leave together. They had been waiting by the school gate for about five minutes when they were joined by a tall, skinny boy. His mop of dark curls covered his face, but John just knew that this was Sherlock. He glowered at the other two boys before climbing into the fancy car that had pulled up next to them. John watched from afar as Greg and Mycroft climbed in after him and sped away, presumably to Sherlock's house. John hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, but the fact that he'd seen him at all gave John a little thrill.


	7. Exams and people who like pretentious colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘We need to talk’
> 
> ‘We are talking.’
> 
>  
> 
> ‘I mean I need to see you’
> 
> ‘You have.’

“So… what you’re saying is, you’re both gay?”  
“Yeah, soon after we broke up she got with Clara from 7A”

“Oh. How fascinating”

“Not like I did any better”

 

Sherlock pressed his face closer to the door. The conversation between Mycroft and Lestrade suddenly stopped. Pressing an eye to the key hole, Sherlock desperately tried to see inside the room. Just a biiiit more left and –

 

Sherlock backed away quickly in horror. That was not something anyone would ever want to see. Except Greg. Because Greg was doing it. Greg was kissing Mycroft. Mycroft was kissing someone. Mycroft and Greg. Two boys. Kissing.

Sherlock quickly retreated to his room, slamming the door shut and gathering his thoughts. This was definitely a situation and he felt like he should tell someone but who? 

 

* * *

 

 

‘ _I saw my brother kissing someone’_

‘I saw you.’

 

‘ _Wait what.’_

 _‘_ Wait. What.’

 

‘ _You saw me?’_

‘M kisses people?’

 

‘ _How.’_

 _‘_ Who.’

 

‘We need to talk’

‘ _We are talking.’_

 

 _‘_ I mean I need to see you’

‘ _You have.’_

* * *

 

John punched the wall in frustration, Sherlock was being deliberately obtuse and he didn’t know how to reply to that last message. Why didn’t Sherlock want to meet him? It couldn’t have been because of the accident? It was hardly his fault. Though John wouldn’t blame him if it were…

 

Over the next few weeks the boys had few chances to communicate, exams were coming up and John was still not quite reaching the level needed for medical school.

 

* * *

 

 

‘I’m going to be so screwed.’

 

_‘Why?’_

‘Because of the exams?’

 

‘ _Oh yeah’_

 

‘Aren’t you worried?’

 

‘ _No._ ’

 

‘Why?’

 

‘ _I’m just good at remembering things’_

 

‘My favourite colour’s green’

 

 

‘ _what?_ ’

 

‘I’ll test you later ;)’

 

‘ _Okay... For the record mine is Blue, but a specific blue though. It’s like darker shade of sapphire, so blue it borderlines black but still has a certain intensity to it’_

 

‘wow.’


	8. Chemical compounds and dusty bookshelves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John got home, the first thing he did was sit down at his desk and pull out Sherlock’s notes again. He was rifling through chemical compounds and thinking about Sherlock. Sherlock had touched these papers. His hand had swept across as his pen bled ink. John held a single piece of paper up hesitantly. He double checked his door was closed and no one was looking at him through his window before slowly pulling it to his face and taking a deep long sniff

John stepped into the toilet trying hard not to look suspicious as he glanced around at the people inside. It had occurred to him that he had probably brushed past Sherlock at some point and didn’t realise so now he made it a point to look at everyone he passed. (This habit now earned him a few giggles from girls who thought he was noticing them)

A little blue arrow lay waiting for John and once again John got to his knees for Sherlock Holmes. Trying desperately to keep his face away from the bowl, John’s hand scrabbled behind the bowl and it found a large envelope.  Curiously he pulled it out and peeked inside. Papers and papers were filled with the elegant writings of Sherlock. He had given John all his notes on every class of the semester as well as memory techniques.

John laughed out loud. What the hell was a mind palace?

A loud slam of the toilet door reminded him where he was and John quickly left the cubicle to put the envelope in his locker.

* * *

  


Sherlock quickly ran around the corner. That was a very close call. He had heard someone laughing in _their_ stall and it could’ve only have been John Watson. He grimaced when he thought back to how loud he had slammed the door but the fact that he made John laugh filled Sherlock with that bubble of happiness again. Especially when he saw him walking out and reading through his notes.

 

* * *

 

 

When John got home, the first thing he did was sit down at his desk and pull out Sherlock’s notes again. He was rifling through chemical compounds and thinking about Sherlock. Sherlock had touched these papers. His hand had swept across as his pen bled ink. John held a single piece of paper up hesitantly. He double checked his door was closed and no one was looking at him through his window before slowly pulling it to his face and taking a deep long sniff.

 

The waft of paper and ink filled his nose, but John picked up a smell that could only have been Sherlock. It smelt of dusty bookcases and pipe ash. Like warm fires on cold nights. It was like Sherlock had breathed life onto the paper and John was absorbing every piece of him through his nose.

His chemistry was long forgotten as John laid on his bed, smelling the paper and imagining Sherlock in his home. Would he wear pyjamas when he went to bed? John imagined Sherlock in a black shirt, his arm flung over his face as he tried to sleep. Would his bed smell like him? John knew what he was thinking could be considered creepy but curiosity filled him and he fell to sleep thinking of Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for the notes”

  
“ _It’s okay. It was no trouble at all”_

 _  
“_ Don’t you need them though?”

 

“ _No, good memory remember?”_

 

 

 _“_ Oh yeah”

 

“ _Besides, I knew most of the material previously. A lot of the teachers don’t like me because I correct them when they're wrong”_

 

“That’s pretty bloody amazing Sherlock” 


	9. Locks and Lockers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John didn't know it, but after that day, Sherlock started seeing him everywhere. Glimpses of half a head, split seconds of loud laughter as John went around a corner. Sherlock even happened to see him sit down once from an opposite window. Everywhere in the school he walked, John Watson seemed to follow him, or he would follow John Watson, as if the universe were urging their meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys super sorry about the late updates! I haven't always felt like writing.. I really appreciate all your kind comments though and if something feels off to you please just tell me and I'll edit it. As will any ideas you think this could go

John didn’t know it, but after that day, Sherlock started seeing him everywhere. Glimpses of half a head, split seconds of loud laughter as John went around a corner. Sherlock even happened to see him sit down once from an opposite window. Everywhere in the school he walked, John Watson seemed to follow him, or he would follow John Watson, as if the universe were urging their meeting. But that couldn’t be and Sherlock put it down to coincidence. Except.

_The universe is rarely so lazy_

The words swam in front of Sherlock and he felt himself feel slightly dizzy. Charlie used to say that. He hadn’t even remembered the boy until it suddenly hit him. Sherlock’s hand reached out as if to grab the boy again and suddenly he was falling. Sharp breathes of air stabbed through his chest until Sherlock didn’t want to breathe anymore. His hand found the cool metal of a locker and he hauled himself up. Luckily there was no one in the corridor and Sherlock was able to recover from the strange attack from his mind. It was funny, it had been ages since it had betrayed him like that. And as Sherlock stood up, he pushed down the memory of Charlie again; deep down in the basement of his mind palace. He mentally physically chained down the memory. Lock by lock as a small thin boy, sat in a chair begging Sherlock to help him, tears staining his face and bonds.

* * *

 

John tried desperately to ignore his rapid heard beat. He had spotted Sherlock walking to class after the bell went and decided to follow him. They had just got to the science corridor when Sherlock suddenly fell, loud gasps escaping his throat every time he tried to breathe. John had wanted to go comfort him but something told him to hold back. So there he watched, from behind a corner, as Sherlock eventually pulled himself together and composed himself. He had almost been seen as Sherlock’s eyes swept over the corridor and John felt a flood of relief through his body when Sherlock finally turned around and entered his classroom.

John wondered what caused Sherlock to have a panic attack but after watching Sherlock brush it off and walk into the class late, he let his worries calm down. If Sherlock was fine now, then it was all okay. He would have to keep his watching far more often now though.

 

 

* * *

 

“So I’ve been thinking…”

 

“ _Well done to you. Was it a big effort?”_

 

 _“_ Oh shut it you. I’ve decided. I want to be a doctor”

 

“ _A medical man. Really?”_

 

 

“Yeah. Always been a dream of mine. What about you?”

 

“ _Being a super sleuth sounds rather tempting”_

 

“Really? Sounds dangerous.. what would your power be?”

 

“ _power?”_

_“_ Yeah, ‘super’ implies an ability”

 

“ _Well considering that I am actually a mere mortal I would have to say my incredibly talented crime solving skills?”_

 

“That doesn’t count”

 

“ _Why not?”_

 

“Because anyone can do that. It has to be something extremely special”

 

“ _There’s nothing else special about me”_


	10. Footballs and Faces

Sherlock was sitting under his tree again at lunch, glaring at anyone who happened to walk any closer than two metres near him.  A pair of boys smirked at him as they strolled past and Sherlock stiffened as he felt himself under their gaze. Suddenly there was a loud shout to his left and Sherlock’s head instantly snapped to the direction it came from. And exactly like last time, a football connected with his face.

Sherlock felt his brain rattling inside his head, and gave it a little shake to clear his vision. He looked up as the same blonde boy as last time came running to him.

Except this time he recognised him.

Except this time. It was John Watson.

Sherlock felt his jaw drop and John slight faltered in his steps.

“Sorry Sh- mate! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to kick it that far again”  
His short sandy hair was drenched with sweat.

Sherlock made himself stiffen and coldly handed him the ball, pretending that John was just another idiot stranger.

“I’m fine thank you”

He nodded and looked Sherlock right in the eyes

“Well good. Sorry ‘bout that” and ran away to go join his friends again.

And if Sherlock hadn’t decided to completely ignore John and his whole left side of vision, he would’ve seen John glance at him several more times during the game.

* * *

 

John tossed and turned in his bed. Sherlock’s face and the sound of his voice filling his mind. His smooth baritone voice washing over John.

“I’m fine thank you”

“I’m fine”

“I’m”

“Sherlock”

 

 

And over on the other side of London, Sherlock lay in his bed unable to sleep as usual. Except it wasn’t new experiments running through his mind. It was John Watson. Running towards him. Running through him. Running. 


	11. Poems and Fighting

It had been weeks since Sherlock’s last fight.

Mycroft had thought that Sherlock was finally grown up and the fights in his past but once again Sherlock proved him wrong.

And funnily enough, it had all started over a poem.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was walking down the English wing when he spotted a large group of boys laughing loudly at something on the wall. Ignoring them as usual, Sherlock went to stride past but when a loud voice suddenly said “That John Watson! What a fucking poof!”

Sherlock spun around.

 

Fuming he made a beeline straight towards the boy who dared insult John Watson, determined to give them a piece of his mind.

He tapped the boy on the shoulder but when he turned around, Sherlock found his words of praise had stuck to his tongue. Anderson’s face at first surprised, quickly turned to disgust when he saw who had dared touch him.

“What do you want, freak.”

Thankfully, Sherlock’s quickly recovered from his shock, (because honestly, who else could it possibly have been) and his tongue was in his control again.

“I just thought I ought to let you know that John Watson is an incredibly talented writer and at least four times the person your girlfriend wishes you were. That’s probably why she’s cheating on you with your dear friend Henry over there. Oh don’t look at me like that Henry, you’ve still got her lipstick on your collar. So unless she found your neck to be a particularly good napkin, I’d say the evidence is pretty incriminating’ Sherlock quickly rattled off, pausing only half way through to take a breath when giving Henry a look.

And then with a flourish of his cloak, Sherlock turned around and swept away, leaving the boys with opened mouths and a very angry Anderson.

 

It was only after his class that Sherlock remembered John’s poem and went over to take a look.

 

 

 

‘Believe’

_Let it be known that I am not a true believer in happiness_

_I believe that no one can truly be happy._

_I believe that we will always find something to complain over._

_But when I think of you, there is not a single dark cloud in my mind_

_And my dead heart which had closed in on itself, opens renewed_

_To bask in the light of your attention._

_The thought of you plagues and taints my every action._

_Even in slumber I cannot escape and I wake still hearing_

_The murmur of your voice._

_And bittersweet desire consumes me and I am a pitiful puddle of adoration._

_But let it be known that I am a believer in passion._

_I believe in sunlight glinting of hair in sleepy mornings_

_And in meeting you, I believe in the definition of happiness._

_-John Watson_

 

* * *

 

The bell rang and as usual, Sherlock was the first out of his seat, out the door and out the school. His mind was on John Watson’s poem and preoccupied he crossed the road without noticing the silent gaggle of boys that had been following him.

“Hey Holmes!”

The voice ran out loud and clear. Sherlock turned around and there before him stood 10 boys backing Anderson.

Wearily, Sherlock sighed, his mind already whirling trying to think of something smart to say. But before he could, Anderson was already in his face, hissing something he deemed to be insulting as usual. Sherlock blocked out the words, and considered telling him about a new brand of mouthwash because just brushing his teeth was not helping his halitosis.

Wait. Did he just say John Watson?  
Sherlock flicked his ears back on

“I bet you and your fucking boyfriend John Watson, share poems to each other all the time. Aint that right Sherly, you send each other love letters?” Anderson was sneering, getting closer and closer to Sherlock’s personal space. Sherlock must’ve rolled his eyes, because Anderson’s demeanour suddenly changed. His face flooded red with anger and his body stilled. 

“You fucking homo Holmes”

And suddenly the rest of the boys all flooded onto Sherlock. He felt himself get pushed down and heard the sound of his shirt rip. The dull sound of numerous boots thumping into his sides and sharp fists rapping his head and shoulders echoed throughout his head. But the intense agony of what he was feeling was lost to him and he lay there numb on the pavement and looked through the sea of legs as people averted their eyes and walked right past the fight.

And there he saw _him_. Standing on the side of the road. It was all in slow motion. Seeing his eyes widen and his mouth open and close to shout the first syllable and then the last of his name. John Watson not looking at anywhere but Sherlock’s face as he started to run to him. John Watson running to him. John Watson running. Across the road.

The car came from nowhere.

 

Suddenly he was coming and then he was gone. Sherlock felt his heart stop as he saw John’s broken body slide off the bonnet of the car. The pain he had felt before was instantly replaced by an intense sensation ripping through him. He hadn’t even noticed that the boys had stopped beating him, had only noticed the desperate scream of his name.

And just like a switch, time was back to normal again. Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the searing sharp pangs of pain shooting through his leg. All he knew was he had to get up and get to John Watson. The John Watson laying there on the road surrounded by people. Why were the people there? Why were they in his way?

Desperately Sherlock pulled and pushed through the crowd. Some saw his blood smeared face and jumped back but most saw the crazed look in his eye and let him pass until he finally got to the boy.

John.

JOHN

JOHN. JOHN. JOHN. JOHN.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! So, beautiful cliff hanger there isn't it? I'm super sorry about it, but believe me, it is very necessary.   
> But also just to rub salt in the wound, I kind of want to fix up the rest of the chapters first, since I uploaded them without editing first. So when I post up that last chapter, please go back and read from the beginning. I really appreciate those who have stuck with me this far and supported me so much that I wanted to keep writing. 
> 
> But if anybody wanted to be an editor for me, there is a slot open! (it's just that sometimes in my excitement my writing goes all over the place and well, you've read it. It's a bit messy) 
> 
> But anyway! Big Thank You to all those who are still here reading this.


	12. Hurt Boys and Hospitals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's finally finished!   
> I'm so sorry it took so long, I guess procrastination really got the best of me.  
> Hope you guys who have stuck around long enough to finish it enjoy it.

It was foggy. Sherlock remembered that much. Maybe it was smoke, or fog. Did it matter? Yes. Details. Sherlock’s brain relied on details as it did on air. It was a foggy morning. He remembered the way the snow had drifted down between them. He remembered the joy he had felt on a snowy Christmas morning.  He remembered Charlie’s scream. The way his body has crumbled. The way his eyes had lit up when he saw Sherlock and he remembered the way the lights had faded. The way the driver of the car had desperately clambered out of the vehicle and ran to the child. He remembered the stammered apologies. The quiet swearing. He remembered his tears. Charlie’s tears. He remembered the pain of throwing himself onto the road. The fog. His own desperation.  The emotion of losing a friend ripping through his flesh. Devastation so intense that not even his parents could release his fingers from Charlie’s body.

 

It had been a terrifying moment for him. To hold someone in his arms again. And not have him move. He didn’t do anything dramatic like scream his anguish. Shake the unresponsive body in a fit of emotion. No. He was Sherlock Holmes. And logic was his friend.

He had placed John Watson on the ground. Supported his neck and checked for breathing. His fingers traced John’s neck and relief filled him as he found a pulse. It was extremely weak but to Sherlock a pulse was a pulse. And he had sat there. Patiently waiting and counting the pathetic heart beats until the sirens of an ambulance came upon them. And that day, the only word that described Sherlock Holmes was loyal. Loyal and still.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

 

And when he woke up in hospital three days later, Sherlock was still there by his side.

There was a tense silent moment. Both boys unsure whether or not to drop the game and acknowledge the identity of the other.

“Long term rugby player; arm broken 3 times, twice from sports one from falling off your bike. You’re constantly worrying about your older sibling, so much so that you hardly get sleep. Skin tone indicates you spend time outside but not so much so that it eliminates studying.

Strong, brave. Your weakness is that you don’t think about your actions. You rush head first into situations, relying on your reflexes and quick thinking to come at just the right time. A likely result from all the contact sport you’ve done.

You love a mystery. The thrill of finding out something and gathering information. You like going out with a mission and the accomplishment that comes with it.

You’re John Watson. The meat head who likes to write poetry. The person who ran in front of a car to help someone you’ve never even talked too before. ”

Sherlock’s deep voice echoed around the small room and John stared at him. His dark curls were all messed up from sitting so long and he had such an intense look that John couldn’t help chuckling.

He laughed and laughed until it was as if his stomach was begging him to stop.

“That was, that was quite amazing”

Sherlock stared at him.

“That's not what people normally say”

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off”

The two boys grinned at each other. It was going to be the start of a wonderful friendship. 


End file.
